


Dream About Flying

by LadyMerlin



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Survival Horror, Tarsus IV, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:55:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyMerlin/pseuds/LadyMerlin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Tarsus, his only escape is dreaming, and he dreams about flying. </p><p>Posted Originally on 3 May 2010 on FFNet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream About Flying

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Dream About Flying by Alexi Murdoch. There is line where he goes, "But every now and then when I'm sleeping, I still have a dream that I'm flying (And I wake up crying)".

In his dream, Jim is flying. He isn’t flying on a plane or a hover-craft or even a spaceship. Nothing lame like that. He is _flying_ , for _real_ , on _huge_ feathery white wings like in the picture the crazy old man from next door had shown him. Only not naked like the people in the picture. He is so high above the ground, so far up that if, for a second, he doesn’t flap his wings, doesn’t focus on staying up, he is sure he’ll fall to his death on the ground.

His heart is thrumming like the heart of a bird, pulsing delicately and yet consistently, and he can feel blood rushing through his body, healthy and clean and so fresh. The cuts and bruises are gone— _did he even have cuts and bruises? Where did he get them?_ —His mind is sharp and he can see properly— _when could he not see properly?_ —and he isn’t hungry— _there’s a shadow in his mind and he’s semi-aware that this is a dream, and that the reality in wait for him is like nothing he can imagine but he can’t vocalize it, can’t even think it, so he relishes the moment_ —and that is just freaking awesome because somehow he can only remember being hungry before, and is not entirely sure why.

He thinks that the hunger is the darkest, scariest thing he’s ever _thoughtseenfelt_. It’s _empty_ and nothing he eats can make him full because it’s not (just) his stomach that is empty, it’s his heart and his mind and his soul— _he’s soul-less like the monsters in his neighbours’ books—_ and they’re all empty. And he’s terrified of himself.

He understands hate, and tiredness, and anger. He understands pain and resentment, but he does not quite understand the completely overshadowing dimness of hunger. He does not understand how this physical thing can twist his mind with longing for something to sate his un-ending hunger. He cannot accept that he is so easily ruled by something so meager, that he can imagine turning against his friends— _brothers and sisters_ —for a cracker or a slice of bread.

And as time goes by, the dark _greed_ inside of him becomes a monster, an actual thing that claws on the insides of his ribs, growling from his stomach. He imagines it has green eyes, and in his moments of weakness, when it takes over him, altering his personality and mind, when he contemplates at night— _rip soft flesh and eat and satisfy and fill and contented bloody lips sleeping without companionship (his companions have sated his hunger) and peace outside but torturenightmarehorror inside—_ the unthinkable, he thinks his eyes turn green as well.

He flies up to a cliff simply because he can— _there is something enchanting and terrifying about the height, unbearably beautiful both outside and inside him—_ and watches life below him. He does not feel like a hawk— _predator fear **animal** —_instead he feels like a glorious god, graceful and _loved._

And then he cannot sleep, even as he leads twelve other children to a place where they can sate their hungers— _can he sate his? Will he ever be full? He is more empty than them all and doesn’t know why and doesn’t know how to fix it—_ he is increasingly terrified. His terror of the nightmare they have witnessed— _dead people dying people living people who are dead inside—_ is constant. He is ever worried They will catch up to them; ever worried they will be turned into the zombies who kill and are killed.

He swoops downwards from the cliff, not opening his wings until he is almost touching the ground, knowing he’s safe because— _this is probably not real—_ his wings will not fail him and he’ll live forever, away from the monster in his heart and the monster in his house.

But his terror of the _monsterinside_ is not reigned in by any rationality, not controlled by logic, not dictated by common sense. He is ruled by his fear of what he knows lies within; what he knows can surface any second. And he takes precautions. He never eats enough to have energy for anything other than walking— _if he does he fears he will attack his brothers and sisters—_ and it feeds the monster and makes it stronger and he is weaker and stuck in a never-ending paradox of words and thoughts and actions that cancel each other out in his mind, yelling contradictions at each other, never _never_ quiet. They are all hallucinating by then, deprived of everything children need.

Then one night as he sits awake— _won’t sleep, can’t sleep, dare not drop his guard—_ he thinks about lying down and never waking up. That’s what happened to their old neighbour. He’s not stupid, of course. He knows what death is. But while he cannot truly and completely _comprehend_ death, he can appreciate the peace that would come from sleeping heavily, comforted by the idea that he will not wake— _that he will not hurt them, not touch them, not drink their souls to replace his—_ and that he wouldn’t have to think about this anymore.

He thinks he is the most stupid person anywhere— _selfish cowardly worthless ungrateful undeserving rude arrogant stupid—_ for being scared of himself. But he is terrified, and unable to bear the fact that he is, infact, the monster, and they are one and the same.

It makes more and more sense to lie down on the cold earth— _it’s earth even when he’s not on Earth because dirt is dirt wherever you go, and only filth is fit to lie on dirt—_ and not wake up from sheer strength of will. He’s weak enough, god knows. It wouldn’t take much. A day longer without his quarter-rations, and he won’t be able to move, and they’ll be safe from him— _will they be safe without him? Can Kim guide them to the nearest lake? Water equals food equals life and they’ll be safe—_ and he’ll die peaceful.

He’s in the sky now, soaring closer and closer to the sun, basking himself in gold and warmth, and his wings will not fall apart because there is no flimsy wax holding feathers in place. His wings are _real_ and flesh and blood and _freedom_.

But he doesn’t, of course. That would be stupid. But he _does_ sleep, for the first time in a long time— _burning eyes soothed by blissful dark—_ and he allows himself water and feels stronger— _strong enough to quell the monster for now, strong enough to stop the voices and the fear—_ and he sleeps almost peacefully then. The smallest member of their party, a sweet kid called Kev, crawls into the crook of his arm and his body is warm and slightly sticky, and the greatest comfort Jim has ever known (forgiveness).

And in his sleep he dreams about flying and it’s the most exhilarating thing because he’s _escaping_ from this planet— _alive or dead is just a matter of details—_ and he’s overjoyed and thrilled and impossibly incredibly light and it totally explains why he’s flying.

Jim wakes to the dirt floor and a rock pillow and instinctively reaches for his wings and they’re gone­ _—of course they’re gone, he was dreaming—_ and he’s stuck on that planet in that nightmare without escape because he cannot fly away and he cannot die in peace, leaving such duty behind, and his only hope of escape is gone, because his wings were a dream.

He cannot help but cry.


End file.
